Bloody Sunday

The young man approaches the bar stool, looking exhausted. He slumps into it and smiles, a mixture of relief and apprehensive content smeared across his face.

Young Vasquez: I guess that’s why I am always at loggerheads with them. The black sheep they call me. “Where were you last week? Ramon showed up! My goodness, how have your parents raised you boy!?”

Forget the endless family functions organised, the countless errands run, it amounts to nothing unless I front up Sunday. Bloody Sunday!

These damn days where I want nothing more than appreciation, I never forget those months. Toiling in the sun, hoping we make it out alive.

“Just do it Chico. Get them off your back and conform, it makes life much easier!” Ramon Vasquez. Tall, dark and handsome, every Latino family loves him and every ‘Muchacha’ wants to know him. Back in school we would slug it out on the courts every lunch wondering how my cousin Ramon came locked and loaded. He schooled me on the basketball court then and as much as it pains me to admit, he schooled me throughout life.

I guess I’m relatively jealous. He is my flesh and blood; I know we would take bullets for each other. Growing up together, sharing bathtubs as babies all the way through our early twenties getting through the gruelling training.

He shifts in his seat. With a steady hand he leans over his seat and pours himself a small shot, courtesy of Martin Miller. After nonchalantly squeezing lime wedges inside the glass, he sips slowly, absorbing the aroma. Placing the glass down, he raises his head slowly. You see his eyes and furrowed brow.

Young Vasquez: “C’mon ‘Primito’,” I hated that. ‘Little Cousin’ in English, but with my head sweltering and Ramon soldiering ahead, I could sense it. Another beating. Why on earth have we signed up for this? Did I think I could get one up on him here?
Quite the opposite it seems. Hell, if it weren’t for him I would have bailed like Judas on Christ.

I recall the shells cracking, guns ablaze, and local kids screaming, locating in vain for their loved ones. “Get to the rendezvous” yells Ramon; I could sense his tone was mixed with frustration and authority. Poor guy. He found it hard to distance the emotional attachment with the locals. I would often question why we were there, lazily completing missions, relying on my stronger cousin at every stage. I knew he didn’t want to be there, but we knew what we signed up for; I guess Ramon being so diligent automatically applied work ethic, which was non-existent for me.

That final mission couldn’t come any sooner. Ramon and I could smell discharge in the air and the final flight home was soothing.

So here we are, you would think our lives have done a complete three-sixty. But some things never change, Ramon, forever loved, and I, forever scorned. They are probably still trying to figure how I can be fixed. Hurry up and end Sunday.